What do a Black Widow spider and the Los Angeles Times have in common? For me, it’s to give a priceless lesson in life.

The Los Angeles Times: Last year I fell for a scam of sorts. A pretty girl asked me to help her out: “All you have to do is sign this thing and get the L.A. Times for free.” Cool, I had just moved from New York, I needed some news. I signed and waited, and waited some more. I received one “free” paper over about six month’s time and didn’t think much of it until my card got charged. I called and told them about the failure to deliver. The operator claimed they adjusted the address, refunded my account, and assured me I’d be receiving the paper.

The charges kept coming, but still no paper. Angry, I requested cancellation, but was sucked in with a credit to my account. This October the paper finally arrived, the nightmare had ended, and reading the L.A. Times became a part of my Thursday-Sunday routine.

I’m not arachnophobic: I haven’t had any traumatic experiences with spiders during my childhood. My encounters were limited to the surprise shower dangler, or the occasional creeper in the bedroom. My older sister even had a pet tarantula growing up. It’s the silent way they make their presence known that bugs me most. And I hate thinking about all those myths on how many spiders people swallow in our sleep each year.

My realization: Right as I started to actually receive the paper, The L. A. Times was out to get me yet again. I relieved this particular Thursday edition from its rubber band and in the fold was an itsy bitsy spider. Except this one was not so itsy bitsy. A Black Widow was already reading the front page. This was my first real live encounter with a Black Widow.

In school I was taught that their venom kills, so I dropped it on sight. The widow fled. My eyes followed. I stared at the hourglass now between the wall and the floor and knew I had to act fast because I had class in 20 minutes.

I was in survival mode and knew it’s rare that an adult would actually die from a Black Widow bite, but in my head the encounter live or die moment. damn it! I couldn’t swat with the rolled up paper in my hand. What if I missed? What if it scurried away not to come out until the next full moon and crawl into my mouth during the deepest of sleep? I’d be a goner.

I decided on a chemical death and poured bleach on the little bugger. It shriveled, I sighed and scooped it off the floor and tossed it outside. That’s it. No bite. No hospital trip. It was over. But I had developed a new appreciation for life from that point on.

Dear L.A. Times, you delivered a great scare. You’ve given me an even better lesson on coming to terms with the unpredictability of nature. I can’t cancel my subscription because my other option is The Santa Barbara News Press, which scares my entire community. Instead, now I just kick your paper around the driveway a few times before I pick it up.